If I wasn’t an author, I’d be a: purple velvet jacket with rhinestone buttons. My Brooklyn grandmother owned one, and I found it as a teenager, wore it for a while, and then lost it. I’d like to have an existence like that, flickering into people’s lives at the perfect time, and then vanishing again.

Anything else you'd like to add: In truth, I don’t really remember the moment that I knew I wanted to become an author, any more than I remember the moment I grew up. Maybe such transformations don’t happen in moments. They only happen in hindsight.

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